SCENE I.
A Chamber.
Enter Fabian and Jaqueline.
Fab. No, no, it cannot be. My lord's commands
Were absolute, that none should visit him.
Jaq. What need he know it?
Fab. But perchance he should?
The study of my life has been his pleasure;
Nor will I risk his favour, to indulge
Such unavailing curiosity.
Jaq. Call it not so; I have kind counsel for him;
Which, if he follow it, may serve to speed
The hour of his deliverance, and appease
The unjustly-anger'd count.
Fab. Pray be content;
I dare not do it. Have this castle's walls
Hous'd thee nine years, and, art thou yet to learn
The temper of the count? Serv'd and obey'd,
There lives not one more gracious, liberal;
Offend him, and his rage is terrible;
I'd rather play with serpents. But, fair Jaqueline,
Setting aside the comeliness and grace
Of this young rustic, which, I own, are rare,
And baits to catch all women, pr'ythee tell,
Why are you thus solicitous to see him?
Jaq. In me, 'twere base to be indifferent:
He was my life's preserver, nay, preserv'd
A life more precious: yes, my dear young mistress!
But for his aid, the eternal sleep of death
Had clos'd the sweetest eyes that ever beam'd.
Aloof, and frighted, stood her coward train,
And saw a furious band of desperate slaves,
Inur'd to blood and rapine, bear her off.
Fab. What! when the gang of outlaw'd Thiery
Rush'd on her chariot, near the wood of Zart,
Was he the unknown youth, who succour'd her
All good betide him for it.
Jaq. Yes, 'twas he.
From one tame wretch he snatch'd a half-drawn sword,
And dealt swift vengeance on the ruffian crew.
Two, at his feet stretch'd dead, the rest, amaz'd,
Fled, muttering curses, while he bore her back,
Unhurt, but by her fears.
Fab. He should be worshipp'd,
Have statues rais'd to him; for, by my life,
I think, there does not breathe another like her.
It makes me young, to see her lovely eyes:
Such charity! such sweet benevolence!
So fair, and yet so humble! prais'd for ever,
Nay, wonder'd at, for nature's rarest gifts,
Yet lowlier than the lowest.
Jaq. Is it strange,
Fair Adelaide and I, thus bound to him,
Are anxious for his safety? What offence
(And sure, 'twas unintended) could provoke
The rigorous count thus to imprison him?
Fab. My lord was ever proud and choleric;
The youth, perhaps unus'd to menaces,
Brook'd them but ill, and darted frown for frown:
This stirr'd the count to fury. But fear nothing;
All will be well; I'll wait the meetest season,
And be his advocate.
Jaq. Mean time, repair to him;
Bid him be patient; let him want no comfort,
Kind care can minister. My lady comes.
May I assure her of your favour to him?
Fab. Assure her, that the man, who sav'd her life,
Is dear to Fabian as his vital blood.
[Exit.
Enter Adelaide.
Adel. I sent thee to his prison. Quickly tell me,
What says he, does he know my sorrow for him?
Does he confound me with the unfeeling crew,
Who act my father's bidding? Can his love
Pity my grief, and bear this wrong with patience?
Jaq. I strove in vain to enter. Fabian holds him,
By the count's charge, in strictest custody;
And, fearful to awake his master's wrath,
Though much unwilling, bars me from his presence.
Adel. Unkind old man! I would myself entreat him,
But fear my earnest look, these starting tears,
Might to the experience of his prying age
Reveal a secret, which, in vain, I strive
To hide from my own breast.
Jaq. Alas, dear lady,
Did not your tongue reveal it, your chang'd mien,
Once lighter than the airy wood-nymph's shade,
Now turn'd to pensive thought and melancholy,—
Involuntary sighs,—your cheek, unlike
Its wonted bloom, as is the red-vein'd rose,
To the dim sweetness of the violet—
These had too soon betray'd you. But take heed;
The colour of our fate too oft is ting'd,
Mournful, or bright, but from our first affections.
Adel. Foul disproportion draws down shame on love,
But where's the crime in fair equality?
Mean birth presumes a mind uncultivate,
Left to the coarseness of its native soil,
To grow like weeds, and die, like them, neglected;
But he was born my equal; lineag'd high,
And titled as our great ones.
Jaq. How easy is our faith to what we wish!
His story may be feign'd.
Adel. I'll not mistrust him.
Since the bless'd hour, that brought him first to save me,
How often have I listen'd to the tale!
Gallant, generous youth!
Thy sport, misfortune, from his infant years!—
Wilt thou pursue him still?
Jaq. Indeed, 'tis hard.
Adel. But, oh, the pang, that these ungrateful walls
Should be his prison! Here, if I were aught,
His presence should have made it festival;
These gates, untouch'd, had leap'd to give him entrance,
And songs of joy made glad the way before him.
Instead of this, think what has been his welcome!
Dragg'd by rude hands before a furious judge,
Insulted, menac'd, like the vilest slave,
And doom'd, unheard, to ignominious bondage.
Jaq. Your father knew not of his service to you?
Adel. No, his indignant soul disdain'd to tell it.
Great spirits, conscious of their inborn worth,
Scorn by demand, to force the praise they merit;
They feel a flame beyond their brightest deeds,
And leave the weak to note them, and to wonder.
Jaq. Suppress these strong emotions. The count's eye
Is quick to find offence. Should he suspect
This unpermitted passion, 'twould draw down
More speedy vengeance on the helpless youth,
Turning your fatal fondness to his ruin.
Adel. Indeed, I want thy counsel. Yet, oh, leave me!
Find, if my gold, my gems, can ransom him.
Had I the world, it should be his as freely.
Jaq. Trust to my care. The countess comes to seek you;
Her eye is this way bent. Conceal this grief;
All may be lost, if you betray such weakness.
[Exit.
Adel. O love! thy sway makes me unnatural.
The tears, which should bedew the grave, yet green,
Of a dear brother, turning from their source,
Forget his death, and fall for Theodore.
Enter the Countess.
Countess. Come near, my love! When thou art from my side,
Methinks I wander like some gloomy ghost,
Who, doom'd to tread alone a dreary round,
Remembers the lost things, that made life precious,
Yet sees no end of cheerless solitude.
Adel. We have known too much of sorrow; yet, 'twere wise
To turn our thoughts from what mischance has ravish'd,
And rest on what it leaves. My father's love——
Countess. Was mine, but is no more. 'Tis past, 'tis gone.
That ray, at last, I hoped would never set,
My guide, my light, through, fortune's blackest shades:
It was my dear reserve, my secret treasure;
I stor'd it up, as misers hoard their gold,
Sure counterpoise for life's severest ills:
Vain was my hope; for love's soft sympathy,
He pays me back harsh words, unkind, reproof,
And looks that stab with coldness.
Adel. Oh, most cruel!
And, were he not my father, I could rail;
Call him unworthy of thy wondrous virtues;
Blind, and unthankful, for the greatest blessing
Heaven's ever-bounteous hand could shower upon him.
Countess. No, Adelaide; we must subdue such thoughts:
Obedience is thy duty, patience mine.
Just now, with stern and peremptory briefness,
He bade me seek my daughter, and dispose her
To wed, by his direction.
Adel. The saints forbid!
To wed by his direction! Wed with whom?
Countess. I know not whom. He counsels with himself.
Adel. I hope he cannot mean it.
Countess. 'Twas his order.
Adel. O madam! on my knees——
Countess. What would my child?
Why are thy hands thus rais'd? Why stream thine eyes?
Why flutters thus thy bosom? Adelaide,
Speak to me! tell me, wherefore art thou thus?
Adel. Surprise and grief—I cannot, cannot speak.
Countess. If 'tis a pain to speak, I would not urge thee.
But can my Adelaide fear aught from me?
Am I so harsh?
Adel. Oh no! the kindest, best!
But, would you save me from the stroke of death,
If you would not behold your daughter, stretch'd,
A poor pale corse, and breathless at your feet,
Oh, step between me and this cruel mandate!
Countess. But this is strange!—I hear your father's step:
He must not see you thus: retire this moment.
I'll come to you anon.
Adel. Yet, ere I go,
O make the interest of my heart your own;
Nor, like a senseless, undiscerning thing,
Incapable of choice, nor worth the question,
Suffer this hasty transfer of your child:
Plead for me strongly, kneel, pray, weep for me;
And angels lend your tongue the power to move him!
[Exit.
Countess. What can this mean, this ecstacy of passion!
Can such reluctance, such emotions, spring
From the mere nicety of maiden fear?
The source is in her heart; I dread to trace it,
Must then a parent's mild authority
Be turn'd a cruel engine, to inflict
Wounds on the gentle bosom of my child?
And am I doom'd to register each day
But by some new distraction?—Edmund! Edmund!
In apprehending worse even than thy loss,
My sense, confused, rests on no single grief;
For that were ease to this eternal pulse,
Which, throbbing here, says, blacker fates must follow;
Enter Count and Austin, meeting.
Count. Welcome, thrice welcome! By our holy mother,
My house seems hallow'd, when thou enter'st it.
Tranquillity and peace dwell ever round thee;
That robe of innocent white is thy soul's emblem,
Made visible in unstain'd purity.
Once more thy hand.
Aust. My daily task has been,
So to subdue the frailties we inherit,
That my fair estimation might go forth,
Nothing for pride, but to an end more righteous:
For, not the solemn trappings of our state,
Tiaras, mitres, nor the pontiff's robe,
Can give such grave authority to priesthood,
As one good deed of grace and charity.
Count. We deem none worthier. But to thy errand!
Aust. I come commission'd from fair Isabel.
Count. To me, or to the Countess?
Aust. Thus, to both.
For your fair courtesy, and entertainment,
She rests your thankful debtor. You, dear lady,
And her sweet friend, the gentle Adelaide,
Have such a holy place in all her thoughts,
That 'twere irreverence to waste her sense
In wordy compliment.
Countess. Alas! where is she?
Till now I scarce had power to think of her;
But 'tis the mournful privilege of grief,
To stand excus'd from kind observances,
Which else, neglected, might be deem'd offence.
Aust. She dwells in sanctuary at Saint Nicholas':
Why she took refuge there——
Count. Retire, Hortensia.
I would have private conference with Austin,
No second ear must witness.
Countess. May I not,
By this good man, solict her return?
Count. Another time; it suits not now.—Retire.
[Exit Countess.
You come commission'd from fair Isabel?
Aust. I come commission'd from a greater power,
The Judge of thee, and Isabel, and all.
The offer of your hand in marriage to her,
With your propos'd divorce from that good lady,
That honour'd, injur'd lady, you sent hence,
She has disclos'd to me.
Count. Which you approve not:
So speaks the frowning prelude of your brow.
Aust. Approve not! Did I not protest against it,
With the bold fervour of enkindled zeal,
I were the pander of a love, like incest;
Betrayer of my trust, my function's shame,
And thy eternal soul's worst enemy.
Count. Yet let not zeal, good man, devour thy reason.
Hear first, and then determine. Well you know,
My hope of heirs has perish'd with my son;
Since now full seventeen years, the unfruitful curse
Has fallen upon Hortensia. Are these signs,
(Tremendous signs, that startle Nature's order!)
Graves casting up their sleepers, earth convuls'd,
Meteors that glare my children's timeless deaths,
Obscure to thee alone?—I have found the cause.
There is no crime our holy church abhors,
Not one high Heaven more strongly interdicts,
Than that commixture, by the marriage rite,
Of blood too near, as mine is to Hortensia.
Aust. Too near of blood! oh, specious mockery!
Where have these doubts been buried twenty years?
Why wake they now? And am I closetted
To sanction them? Take back your hasty words,
That call'd me wise or virtuous; while you offer
Such shallow fictions to insult my sense,
And strive to win me to a villain's office.
Count. The virtue of our churchmen, like our wives,
Should be obedient meekness. Proud resistance,
Bandying high looks, a port erect and bold,
Are from the canon of your order, priest.
Learn this, for here will I be teacher, Austin;
Our temporal blood must not be stirr'd thus rudely:
A front that taunts, a scanning, scornful brow,
Are silent menaces, and blows unstruck.
Aust. Not so, my lord; mine is no priestly pride:
When I put off the habit of the world,
I had lost all that made it dear to me,
And shook off, to my best, its heat and passions.
But can I hold in horror this ill deed,
And dress my brow in false approving smiles?
No: could I carry lightning in my eye,
Or roll a voice like thunder in your ears,
So should I suit my utterance to my thoughts,
And act as fits my sacred ministry.
Count. O father! did you know the conflict here;
How love and conscience are at war within me;
Most sure, you would not treat my grief thus harshly.
I call the saints to witness, were I master,
To wive the perfect model of my wish,
For virtue, and all female loveliness,
I would not rove to an ideal form,
But beg of Heaven another like Hortensia.——
Yet we must part.
Aust. And think you to excuse
A meditated wrong to excellence,
By giving it acknowledgment and praise?
Rather pretend insensibility;
Feign that thou dost not see like other men;
So may abhorrence be exchang'd for wonder,
Or men from cursing fall to pity thee.
Count. You strive in vain; no power on earth can shake me.
I grant my present purpose seems severe,
Yet are there means to smooth severity,
Which you, and only you, can best apply.
Aust. Oh no! the means hang there, there by your side:
Enwring your fingers in her flowing hair,
And with that weapon drink her heart's best blood;
So shall you kill her, but not cruelly,
Compar'd to this deliberate, lingering murder.
Count. Away with this perverseness! Get thee to her;
Tell her my heart is hers; here deep engrav'd
In characters indelible, shall rest
The sense of her perfections. Why I leave her,
Is not from cloy'd or fickle appetite
(For infinite is still her power to charm;)——
But Heaven will have it so.
Aust. Oh, name not Heaven!
'Tis too profane abuse.
Count. Win her consent.
(I know thy sway is boundless o'er her will,)
Then join my hand to blooming Isabel.
Thus, will you do to all most worthy service;
The curse, averted thus, shall pass from Narbonne;
My house again may flourish; and proud Godfrey,
Who now disputes, will ratify my title,
Pleas'd with the rich succession to his heirs.
Aust. Has passion drown'd all sense, all memory?
She was affianc'd to your son, young Edmund.
Count. She never lov'd my son. Our importunity
Won her consent, but not her heart, to Edmund.
Aust. Did not that speak her soul pre-occupied?
Some undivulg'd and deep-felt preference?
Count. Ha! thou hast rous'd a thought: This Theodore!
(Dull that I was, not to perceive it sooner!)
He is her paramour! by Heaven, she loves him!
Her coldness to my son; her few tears for him;
Her flight; this peasant's aiding her; all, all,
Make it unquestionable;—but he dies.
Aust. Astonishment! What does thy phrensy mean?
Count. I thank thee, priest! thou serv'st me 'gainst thy will.
That slave is in my power. Come, follow me.
Thou shalt behold the minion's heart torn out;
Then to his mistress bear the trembling present.
[Exeunt.